


Scavenger of Shiny Things

by Grave



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Edging/Orgasm Denial, Handcuffs, M/M, PWP, Soft bondage, blindfold, bottom!Illya, oh hey! A wild Gaby appears!, shameless schmoopy epilogue, slight D/s, virgin!Illya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 04:14:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4691711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grave/pseuds/Grave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Let's just say - Napoleon has some fun with his favourite  Russian and teaches him some new tricks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so here we go, the fanfiction I have been craving for ever since I saw the movie! I hope you enjoy this shameless piece of smut?

Napoleon had been more than once compared to a magpie. And let’s say it had been the most friendly comparison in that direction. The reason for that was simple and unimaginative - he liked shiny, beautiful things. But not only did he like it, he also wanted to _own_ them. 

Already as a child he liked to let the one object of worth of his mother glide through his fingers, watching with fascination at how the gold of the necklace glimmered in the secret light of a candle. He made his mother cry for nearly two days when she found out that her necklace was gone. She hadn’t worn it anymore, but she had wanted to sell it. For something that would be of more use in the long run than a necklace she had no occasion to wear for anyway and only held the sentimental worth of an old trinket. When they moved flats he forgot all about it and he liked to imagine that still to this day it was there, under the wooden floorboards in his old room. 

 

His fascination and affections were strong, fast and bordering on obsession, but his interest usually died as soon as he got what he wanted. He was unreliable in this love and he knew that, caused enough  women and men heartbreak because of it. 

It made him a womanizer and a thief - very successful in both areas, probably because of that exact lack of attachment.

 

To large parts his appreciation of beauty went along with with universal standards. Those shiny things. Those pretty things. Those things you needed to stop for a second and just appreciate. Once upon a time he had owned a very impressive art collection. Nowadays it is just a sad shadow of what it once was. His New York apartment was self-indulgent. His wardrobe more opulent than strictly necessary. He did not only see the beauty in things, but also in people. Women,  men and all the pretty shades that existed in between. 

 

But most people really did not give him enough credit. Of course they took notice when suddenly one of the most precious pieces of their art gallery was gone, but stayed oblivious to the fact that the subtle Jugendstil replica ashtray had disappeared with it. Beauty did not always go along with a price tag.

 

After all his favorite pieces to steal recently were not measurable with a price, but none the less enticing for him. Illya’s beloved watch could be recently found just as many times on Napoleon’s wrist as it could be on it’s true owners. (Admittedly, this also resulted in to broken fingers a few months ago - _completely_ refuting the insinuation that he had a hedonistic nature. That had been definitely more pain than pleasure, but even with two fingers in a neat cast, the next day the watch would be back on his wrist.) As well - that one pair of sunglasses that Gaby owned and was delightfully boyish and even though both Gaby and Illya had disagreed with him multiple times on this matter - Napoleon thought he could totally pull them off. 

 

He had loved and lost many things in his life already - things he thought he would grew never tired of but only  a fraction of a time later it was over after all.  

 

 _This_ , Napoleon thought, _I don’t think I will get tired of this soon_. He knew that there probably had been a stupid fond smile on his face for the last fifteen minutes at least, but to their all relieve no one could see it but him and the reflection of himself in the mirror conveniently placed right over the head of the gigantic bed in the overly expensive hotel suite in London. 

(There might be a little truth to narcissistic after all.)

 

It was hard not to take a step back, or even better, take a seat in the comfortable armchair placed right across from the bed, cross his legs, pour a glass of whisky and just appreciate the _sight_. Just like had done only a few days ago  in the National Gallery - really take in every brush stroke of a painting, all the small details and how they came together to form a masterpiece worth displaying. 

Close enough to touch. 

(Close enough to steal.) 

Maybe this was the difference here, why he wouldn’t just take a step here - he was allowed to touch, even urged to do it - alas, he was always so bad at doing what he was told and begged to do. On good days he was a pleaser, but on bad days he could be only a tease… 

 

»Napoleon…« 

 

Napoleon still needed to get used to hearing his first name like this. He had been on too many mission lately, so many fake identities, in between only Agent Solo. He always believed that his mother must have been drunk the day she had given birth to him and decided to give him the name of a French politician, smart but ultimately doomed to fail after making history. Little Napoleon born in an unremarkable neighborhood in New York. His mother probably thought it would make him appear sophisticated. The result was rather that he was bullied mercilessly until he learned how to put up a fight and even better - how to avoid one. His name sounded always slightly off, a complete new tune given to it by a harsh Russian tongue. 

 

Strong thighs tensed up against his flanks. There was something thrilling about knowing that if Illya just so wanted it, he could snap his spine like a twig. More thrilling than that was the knowledge that Illya actively chose _not_ to.

 _Someone likes me after all!_ , he thought childishly.

 

Napoleon had become distracted by his own thoughts - that happened, he had to admit, more often than he liked to admit - and even though he hadn’t turned his gaze away, only now it focused again on what was right there in front of him.  

 

Beauty lay in the eyes of the beholder, but if someone ever dared to tell him that what he was allowed to witness at the moment, was not breathtaking, then they were sore liars.   

Illya was lying naked on the dark red sheets that contrasted nicely with the pale skin that lost its tan already a few weeks ago since they have been in rainy, cloudy London. Right there, bared just for Napoleon’s pleasure he lay, the huge Russian bear tamed, stretched out with his hands above his head. They were tied together by the tie Napoleon had been wearing not so long ago. The knot was laughable, the whole idea that handcuffs made out of a silk tie could hold Ilya down was ridiculous. 

 

»Napoleon!« His name grew more impatient on the Russian’s lips. This time his hip bones protested a little as Illya squeezed again. Napoleon gave him a half hearted slap against his left thigh. Still quick enough that it stung and left for a few second outlines of his fingers behind. Ilya cursed something in Russian under his breath Napoleon didn’t quite catch . (He should _really_ get onto those lessons to improve his Russian. Gaby had been far more diligent than he had been on that front.) Almost apologetically he stroked over Illya’s chest as it heaved with deep breathes. As soon as Napoleon touched the other’s skin - broad, perfectly carved out muscles, perfect but for the wild mess of scars of different ages, all telling a story from a different mission, two of them very fresh - one from a knife in his shoulder two weeks ago, the other a bruise on the left side of his face - Illya arched his back towards the touch as if starved for it. What a sight to behold. Napoleon should be careful not to say it out loud or he would probably break this moment they have been working towards so slowly. 

 

What excruciating months - nearly a year - it has been between now and when finally the tension between them had snapped. _Snapped_ was probably the wrong word for it. It hadn’t been what Napoleon suspected would happen. He thought it would rather go something like this: 

Another argument, another fight Ilya didn’t know how else to win but with bodily force, the only difference being that rather than kissing him with a fist, he would actually use his mouth. It would be hard and unsophisticated and punishing, tasting more like vengeance than pleasure. It would be hands grabbing and tearing, unable yet to comprehend that violence was replaced by lust. Maybe it would have slowed down a little after a while, maybe they would have eventually just rutted against each other like animals until the first of them came. Afterwards a few days of shameful silence from Ilya, maybe a silent arrangement afterwards. All in all a far more - in Napoleon’s opinion - pleasant way to resolve the tensions between them. Everyone would be a winner. 

It had turned out very differently. It had not been heated and it had not been fast. It had just been a quiet evening together in the living room of their hotel suite in Barcelona. Gaby had been out in the city, dancing. Napoleon had wanted to come with her but she had just laughed and shut the door in his face. (»No way, Jose, I want to have fun and dance with lots of handsome Spanish men! When I go out with _you_ that doesn’t work out. Also, you’re freshly stitched up. Too bad. Bye.«) That evening had at first looked like it would turn in one of the most boring ones he had every had, until he got Ilya to stop cleaning their whole arsenal of guns, drank nearly a bottle of wine and got the Russian to at least play chess with him. Everything afterwards had been quite a blur in his head. He just knew that at one point something had triggered Illya’s rhythmic tapping of the index finger against his thigh and unwilling to deal with an outburst of any kind or Illya barricading himself into his little part of the suite, he had asked ( _ordered_ ) Illya to stop it. The reaction had been quite the surprise. For a moment Illya had looked startled, freezing immediately, blue eyes wide and mouth softly agape, before he turned his gaze away. Napoleon could be drunk - but just as he would be able to still spot a diamond collier worth stealing at 2am at a cocktail party, he was able to have a glimpse of this little _something_ that immediately spiked his interest.

 

»You should kiss me.«, he had said, his brain to mouth filter slightly off when he was halfway drunk in an environment that he considered to his own shock safe. Illya had shifted on the sofa and Napoleon had been sure that would be the moment he would finally flee. But he hadn’t. Napoleon decided to rephrase it. »Kiss me, Illya.« No joke about this, no nothing. As honest as Napoleon could get in his life and if he had known that _that_ would be all that it took, he would have done it earlier. Because suddenly Illya had been there, right next to him - when had they changed to the sofa actually? -, slowly breaching the gap between them until their lips touched softly, fleetingly. It was an odd thing, their first kiss. Off center and insecure, and it was stupid that you could think of someone so large, so tall as _innocent_. This first night had ended like this: with Napoleon’s hand down Illya’s pants, working him to a good and intense orgasm. All the while he had pressed kisses to his temple, to the corner of his mouth, whispering in his ear (»You’re doing so good. So damn good. I’ve got you. Just let go.«) while Illya could barely do anything but hold with one hand awkwardly onto Napoleon’s right upper arm, with his head laid back, his eyes pressed closed and his mouth open in a soft O shape that nearly drove Napoleon insane with the need to kiss him so indecently, so absolutely obscenely until his lips were dark red and he forgot what air felt like. Napoleon hadn’t even got a turn that night, just stroked Illya through his orgasm and afterwards continued to caress almost tenderly the blonde hair coming loose, soft and golden slipping through his fingers.

 

For Napoleon every tie, every border, every rule was just an obstacle that annoyed him. Every rule was there to be broken or danced around. He was always the exception. His lack of commitment was an unforgivable flaw in the eyes of many but for him it had been always essential that he was in charge of his own freedom. He shouldn't have been surprised that deep down, as beautiful and independent Illya was, that there was something in him that craved the opposite. He needed control and a solid ground to stand on. Safety. Idiots from the Western side of the Iron Curtain would probably insist that this was all about the Russian upbringing but it was never as simple as that, was it?  

Napoleon should probably have guessed considering how lost Illya had been in his first weeks working for U.N.C.L.E. - ties probably irrevocably cut to the KGB (they all knew it, Illya himself knew it, nonetheless they never talked about it) - without a clear purpose, without clear instructions. Mostly that was a good thing. But as Napoleon would find out after that one fateful night and even though Illya complained or even openly defied him whenever Napoleon took the lead on their current job on a regular - in their privacy the wild bear craved a strong hand.

 

 

They had been on the bed already for over an hour and Napoleon hadn’t come further than getting rid of jacket, tie, shirt, shoes and waistcoat and by now he slowly became more and more aware of how  his trousers constrained him and his undershirt clung to him uncomfortably. His patience was already slowly starting to wear thin and he could only imagine how Illya was feeling in comparison.

 

Napoleon watched as Illya started to shift impatiently, fingers helplessly flexing, fiddling with the material of the tie that was holding them up, but no attempts were made yet to open the knot. Napoleon had been giving them both a little breather. Just a few minutes ago he had had his hand around Illya’s cock, fingers teasing his balls until Illya wasn’t able to get a single English word out anymore, but just before he would have come Napoleon had simply breathed a kiss against his chest, right where he could taste Illya’s heart beating frantically against his mouth and leaned back so far that there was no chance that Illya could somehow get the last bit of friction that was needed to finally be released. 

 

They have already repeated that about four times and each time the periods grew shorter and shorter until Illya started shaking and arching underneath him - Napoleon’s name the only thing that made sense anymore.

 

Napoleon looked down. Illya was still hard. Just like everything about this man even his cock was large though not to a point where Napoleon needed to get self conscious. He wouldn’t even go slightly soft anymore, still proud and red. 

 

»Napoleon… I-«

 

 _Third time is a charm_ , a saying his mother had always gone by and Napoleon showed some pity. He leaned down over Illya, making sure to show him that he was more than hard himself, brushing his still clothed crotch against the Russian’s proud member.

 

»Hey, Peril.«, Napoleon rested his arm next to Illya’s head, his voice nothing more than a cat’s purr. »You’ve been doing really good so far.« He really meant it. He would have thought Illya would snap at him half an hour ago. But he had been holding on so perfectly. Just thinking about how he looked at Napoleon when they started, how quiet he had been as they stripped him out of every single layer of clothing, when Napoleon wrapped his tie around the wrists that were willingly offered to him. How Illya’s breath caught in his throat when Napoleon pulled the knot tighter. He almost regretted using the second tie - the one he wore yesterday and had been discarded on the nightstand carelessly - to blindfold Illya and hide his pretty blue eyes after their first round. Almost. It had been too much fun to see how sensitive Illya had turned to his every little touch and move as soon as he had his sight robbed.

 

Napoleon traced with his thumb over Illya’s bottom lip, red and slightly swollen from all the times he worried it between his teeth in an attempt (only during the first two times) to hold his moans back. He soon replaced his thumb with his mouth. Napoleon drew Illya in a kiss that he had denied himself so far. It would have been the surest way to forget himself in the situation when there was so much he had planned for the evening. He relished kisses. It was his not-so-secret-weakness. In general he liked doing things with his mouth (probably some horrible oral fixation Freud would have some choice theories on) and Illya had been such a quick learner. He came a long way from his first clumsy, insecure attempts to now opening his mouth so willingly, meeting Napoleon’s tongue halfway in a slowed down battle. (Always yielding in the end.) 

With self-indulgence Napoleon dragged the kiss out, enjoying how Illya felt underneath him, bucking upwards, desperately trying to get some friction going between their bodies. The sharp taste of the glass of vodka Illya had allowed himself earlier that night was gone by now what was left was just him. The kiss grew steadily more heated and soon Napoleon started to move his hips in slow suggestive circles. Who would have thought that they could ever work so perfectly in sync? And who would have thought that at some point Napoleon’s favorite activity with Illya wouldn’t be teasing him until he smashed a table, but rather this?

(The other was still a close second.)

 

Napoleon got pulled out of the spell the moment he could feel strong arms drawing him down deeper, fingers twisting in his hair.  He let out a deep sigh as he drew back again. Decidedly he caught Illya’s wrists behind his neck and pushed them back in their position above the Russian’s head. 

»I didn’t allow you to touch me, Peril. Don’t mess this up now.« The urge to give Illya a punishing slap against his cheek was there but he refrained from doing so. It would be punishment enough for him that Napoleon decided to settle back on his heels again.

 

This finally got Illya to grit his teeth and some of his usually bad temper surfaced. » _Fuck you_ , Napoleon.«, he cursed under his breath and Napoleon laughed. 

 

»This is how I like you, Peril. A little _feisty_!« 

 

Illya shifted on his position. His shoulders probably started aching some time ago and he seemed to struggle for words for a moment. »Do you plan on doing something? Or do you just plan to tease for the rest of the evening?« It was so easy to slip back into their usual banter. But Illya’s tone was far away from its default deadpan annoyance with Napoleon - only a trace of it left and the soft tremor in it hard to miss.

 

»Don’t tempt me!« Napoleon glid off the bed -  an endeavor that was not as easy as you might think, because the mattress could probably fit four men in Illya’s size. The sound coming from the other’s mouth as soon as he felt the loss of Napoleon between his legs was absolutely delicious. The sudden panic was less delightful and the fact that Illya was shifting out of his obedient position, trying to sit up was not even remotely okay. Napoleon, already halfway to his suitcase, stepped back to the side if the bed, placing a decisive hand on Illya’s chest and pushed him down again on the mattress. »Lie down. Do not move. I want you to stay right where I put you. I will be back in a minute.« Again no joke and playfulness in his voice. He used the tone he usually reserved for the most stressful situations during missions. With a great amount of pleasure he watched as Illya practically melted back in his position from before, but the tension was visible in his body, especially after Napoleon took his hand away again.

 

He knew it took a lot and he knew that with this - more than with anything else he had done this evening and will still do - he was pushing Illya’s boundaries. Tied and blind and alone on a bed meant a vulnerability that probably fired all alarm bells in the blonde’s head. 

 

This was something Napoleon usually avoided thinking about too much. There were three words he was even more incapable of comprehending than _I love you_. He used that sentimental phrase flippantly and easy in the past until it turned meaningless in his own head.

  _I trust you_ on the other hand was loaded with a burden that Napoleon desperately tried to avoid. 

 

It didn’t take long to find what he was searching for in the pockets of his still halfway unpacked suitcase. On his way back he finally got rid of the undershirt and stepped out of his suit pants. He took his sweet time, stopping by the table with the complementary alcoholic beverages. There was still a last sip of whisky in his glass and he took the chance to drink it. The ice clinked in the glass as the took the last sip.

 

Napoleon didn’t drag everything out too long, eventually stepping to the in one smooth movement, still with the glass in one hand and the small  bottle he got from his suitcase in the other. 

»Hey there, big boy, how are you doing?«, he teased.

 

»What where _you_ do-Блядь!« Illya nearly jumped off the bed when Napoleon poured the last ice cube that was still in his tumbler onto his stomach. He could only thank his reflexes for avoiding a concussion caused by Illya’s tied fists. He snickered as he wrestled the other back flat onto his back, pressing a soothing kiss against his temple. There were a few choice Russian words thrown in his face (funny thing, how swear words and insults are the fastest thing you pick up from a language!), but he got Illya easily to shut up again as he discarded the glass altogether and rather wrapped his hand again around his cock, giving him a good squeeze, verging on the painful side - just like he knew by now the blonde liked. Curses blended into each other, Illya’s mouth dropping open in a breathy moan. 

 

»Hands, peril.«, he murmured against his throat, as he worked his mouth against the beating pulse, first stubble grazing against his own cheek. The short little outburst came and went and had taken away all the tension in Illya’s body. Automatically he lifted his hands back again over his head. In approval Napoleon gave Illya’s a good stroke, circling his thumb over the wet tip. »Just wanted to wake you up again for the best part. After all I still really, really want to _fuck_ you.« 

 

 _Adorable_ , he thought as he saw a soft blush creeping into Illya’s cheek. Napoleon usually preferred to use more delicate language but his brain to mouth filter was slowly going downhill. As he said it himself he could almost feel his own cock stirring with intense interest. They have been working towards this point so slowly. Napoleon had been nothing but considerate. It had been a fascinating journey so far. As hard as Illya fought, as rough and brutish he was in many regards - Napoleon liked to compare him to an uncut diamond. Untouched. Hardened. Hidden beauty. There to be worked free by Napoleon’s skilled hands. Virginity was a concept he usually laughed about. A social construct he didn’t care about. But there was something utterly captivating to know in how many awful, unspeakable ways Illya must have been touched, what he had survived and fought through - _but_ there was no one who was ever allowed to touch this, handsome in a way Nazis would have put him on propaganda posters for their Master Race and Napoleon wouldn’t have been able to resent them for it.

And here he was. Little thief Napoleon Solo. How could he not treasure this? Here he was, showing him some of his best tricks, making him moan so sweetly under his hands. 

 

 

 

 

Napoleon warmed the lube between the fingers of his right hand, all the while rubbing soothing circles on Illya’s stomach. He might not be tense anymore, but he was surely nervous. Napoleon got a glimpse of himself in the mirror again and even he looked by now like a mess, cheeks flushed and hair in a disarray of dark curls. 

 

»Ready?« This was the moment where he should check again. Still a way out for Illya. Napoleon might be many things but never cruel and he knew that this was essential now.

 

First Illya just gave him a sharp nod. »Ready for hours already, cowboy.« The quip lacked its usual bite but Napoleon took it with a smile.

 

Napoleon let out the breath he didn’t even know he was holding.

 

Just like he had done everything tonight he also prepared Illya slow and thoroughly, cruelly ignoring Illya’s straining cock, right there in front of his eyes. He started with one finger, then added another, eventually a third one, each time dipping his fingers in a generous amount of lube. Illya was unbelievable tight around his fingers and it took longer than he would have thought to work his tension out of his body and get him to spread his legs again. 

The few times Napoleon had slowly educated Illya step by little step in the simple pleasures of the body, he had never seen him struggle like this against it, as if he wanted to deny enjoying it in any way. A futile process really, because Napoleon knew exactly what he was doing, actively only teasing the sweet pleasure spot while he fucked Illya open with his fingers. 

Napoleon watched everything, every little detail, every little shift - from how Illya’s fingers twitched, to how he nearly bit his bottom lip bloody to how you could visible see the muscles working in his loins - and he passed the moment where he thought that Illya should get a push in the right direction again - hitting his sweet spot right own, pressing down on it with two fingers. »Just for future reference - _that_ is what I want you to hit when I ride you.«

A short Russian curse followed by his name came like a surprised shout from Illya’s mouth. Sweetest music really. Illya bucked so hard down that Napoleon’s wrist protested nearly together with the frame of the bed. Well, 220 pounds of prime Russian man was a considerably weight. He repeated the whole process another three times, before he withdrew his fingers gently. 

 

»Hey, Peril.« With gentle hands he opened the knot of the tie that served as a blindfold, revealing blue eyes staring up at him large and wide, with pupils impossibly blown. 

 

»I _hate_ you, Napoleon.«

 

»Ah, you have been more convincing once…« He couldn’t quite muster the usual sass himself. His own heart was racing in his chest. This was a whole new training for impulse control. (Take that, dossier and _control disorder_.) All evening - ever since Illya had started hovering awkwardly behind him while he unpacked his suit and Gaby was gone to meet with a contact person until he had finally apparently gathered enough courage to stop Napoleon in his way to the bathroom and crowded him against the next door frame and kissed him - he had wanted to do nothing more than to simply fuck Illya until he last every last shred of composure. Sometimes he was a man of simple needs. 

 

(That was actually a lie. He had thought that this big boy needed a good fuck ever since they held their first real conversation in that café where it was revealed that they would be partners from now on.)

 

Napoleon didn’t break eye contact with Illya, all while discarding his own last piece of clothing into nowhere land, not even when he braced Illya’s left leg against his flank and slowly sank into him.  And by God was the temptation great to just close his eyes and relish the moment this sweet, still oh-so-tight heat engulfed him completely.

 

 _That’s mine_ , he thought selfishly and greedy and absolutely ridiculously because there was nothing to own. Especially not this man.

 

»Good?«, he asked at the same time he started moving his hips, one hand still holding onto Illya’s leg and the other braced for balance on the point where Illya’s wrists are held together. How can he be only two years younger than Napoleon and half a head taller but still look like such a kid in that moment, just nodding open mouthed and so obviously awed, like Napoleon was giving him something he never believed he could have.

 

The last knot he unties was the one that held Illya’s wrist together and for a moment Illya looked like he didn’t know what to do with this newfound freedom. At first he reached out to touch Napoleon’s neck, gracing over his shoulder where white bandages were covering the wound from the bullet that had been wedged in his right breast bone not too long ago, drawing down the length of his back just to settle on his ass. That was where the touch became less innocent but gun rough fingers were pushed into his flash urging him forward, deeper. 

 

Well, for this he didn’t have to be asked three times. They both wouldn’t last long anymore. Napoleon could feel his own climax seething in his very bones and Illya had already gotten his release denied five times until they finally got to this point. He picked up the rhythm and Illya just went with it as if he had already done this a hundred times. Maybe they had. In a different way. Fucking and fighting was closer together than one would thought and if they could do one thing than it was fight. 

It had been a long time since he had experienced anything as intense as this. Ever since he had been forced to work for the CIA, a constant metaphorical gun to his head, his life had became dull, out of control, out of his hands - but this put something back he thought he had lost a long time ago and would never find again. In the morning Illya would be the same stubborn nuisance as he always has been, but right now he was this beautiful, breathtaking mess under him. Brilliant under the hard exterior, lost completely, so happy to just take whatever Napoleon gave him. 

 

He didn’t even know at what sweet place Illya was lost in his own head right now, but he could hardly believe has he heard him press out between clenched teeth: »Can I…I need to come, can I….« 

 

A laugh bubbled out of Napoleon’s chest almost involuntarily. »Yeah…«, he said, out of breath himself as he wrapped a hand around Illya’s leaking cock, smearing the precome all over his length. The other arched upwards, into his hand, onto his cock, drawing him in. »You can come now.« And just like this Illya did, coming hot and thick all over Napoleon’s hand, between their sweat wet bodies. Caged between those massive tree trunk thighs, Napoleon’s breath got knocked out of him as Illya’s whole body tensed up in sweet release after nearly two hours. His climax seemed to go on forever. All the while Napoleon kept up his rhythm, kept milking the last bit of come until Illya collapsed back onto the bed breathless. 

 

His own orgasm wasn’t too far behind but it tackled him nearly by surprise. He had been too occupied just looking at Illya, flushed from cheeks all the way down to his chest, mouth hanging open in the need for air like it didn’t when he decided to run after a car on foot, eyes glassy and blond hair sticking to his forehead. If he had any skill in that area he would paint it and swap it with the Mona Lisa. He didn’t even realize how his one hand cradled almost lovingly Illya’s cheek, his thumb again drawing after that red mouth until Illya turned his head ever so slightly down and caught his thumb between his teeth, sucking on it - and that’s what did him over at last. His own orgasm came with an intensity he didn’t quite expect and Illya just took it, didn’t even protest once or even grunt while Napoleon rode it out till the last drop and he just stayed still. His sweat burnt in his own eyes and his heart was beating too loud and too fast in his own chest, but fucking hell - that easily made it into his top 10. 

 

What he also hadn’t realized apparently was how his right arm he had braced next to Illya’s head for balance had started trembling and was now just folding under his own weight as the rush and the excitement wore off. A sharp pain shot from the fingertips to his chest. Good, it was probably the only thing that could have forced him to roll to the side, lying down next to Illya instead of just staying right there and drinking in that delicious heat some more.

 

»You are the biggest fool I have ever met.«

 

Napoleon could do not much more but give kudos with his left hand. »I love you, Peril. Never change.« 

 

 

***

 


	2. Bathtub Schmoop? Bathtub Schmoop!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go. 1.4k words which you could call a little "epilogue" - it exists for no apparent reason. Just because after a good round of porn, I always crave a fluffy scene.
> 
> Does it serve a purpose? No. Not at all. Is it good for the heart? Yup.
> 
> Oh, hey, there's Gaby! (Who had been too far way to good for this fanfiction!)
> 
> Directly following the events of chapter 1.
> 
> Bathtub epilogue? Bathtub epilogue.

Getting 220 pounds of Russian into a bathtub was exactly as hard as you would expect. 

 

Napoleon had decided that just as he was - naked,sweaty,softly bleeding from his shoulder and face first on the mattress - was the best position to just have a little break. He deserved a nap and to his surprise - for once Illya apparently just agreed with him judging by the deep, regular breathing coming from next to him. (Bordering on soft snoring. _Adorable_.)

His little nap time hadn’t lasted too long. He had woken up at some unspecific time in the evening again and as soon as he tried to move he realized how damn sore he was from head to toe. He felt pleasantly satisfied, that certain looseness you could only get after good sex in his bones, but at the same time he also felt quite disgusting. As he heaved his weight up, his shoulder protested with a sharp pain and when he looked down there was a tiny red spot on his bandage. If already he felt like this, he could only imagine how Illya must feel. (Or not. He was a superhuman after all.) He looked to the left where the Russian had turned on his stomach by now, blond hair nearly obscuring his face now that it flopped out of its usual collected coiffure. He refrained from being a horrible sap by reaching out and brushing the stray strands back and rather got properly up from the bed.Napoleon pulled a disgusted face at his own mirror image when he made the mistake of looking. Illya’s watch was quickly found where it had been put to the side, safe and sound - to his surprise it showed him that he barely slept for an hour and if they would hurry a little they wouldn’t have to deal with Gaby pulling a mock horrified face at them while not having the decency to look away and moaning about her innocent virgin eyes. (He really loved her.) 

 

The giant free standing bathtub in the center of the huge bathroom immediately caught his attention when they inspected the suite and now he had actually a good excuse to use it - considerate, perfect lover that he was. As it turned out - once, properly knocked out it was hard to wake up Illya (not what you learn in the Soviet spy school!) and functioning enough to transport him from the bad and into the bathtub. »Hey, big boy.«, Napoleon whispered gently as he crawled over Illya, the water still running in the background. »Time to clean up a little. You’ll thank me later. Or at least you would if ›thank you‹ would be part of your vocabulary. I mean, you surely have a great theory why the KGB didn’t teach you that word. At least I taught you ›please‹ already quite effectively…« Ah, horrible habit, all that babbling. Surest sign that he was exhausted himself. 

 

_We’ve come so far_ , he thought fondly as the only reaction he got was a dark glare and not a hand at his throat and a bruised rib from being flipped over with force and pinned to the floor. 

»I can wash myself. Leave me alone.« 

Napoleon hummed in not quite agreement, a little bit distracted at how dark and sleep rough Illya’s voice sounded. As everyone knew ›leave me alone‹ meant basically nothing. 

 

It might be as hard as you would expect, but eventually he got Illya there, with a little shoving and a little dragging. He expected some comment - something about the merit of showers and the inefficiency of baths, something something Russian way something. But Illya stayed quiet and let himself glide into the steaming hot water and actually let out a content little grunt. As Napoleon turned away his wrist was suddenly caught.

»Where are you going?«, Illya asked without opening his eyes.

 

»Just wanted to get the shampoo. Don’t worry, Peril.« 

 

»You put enough soap to wash the whole hotel into the water. It’s fine. Come in.« 

 

»I always knew you were a romantic at heart, Kuryakin!« Before Illya could retract his invitation again, Napoleon made a quick process of getting into the tub. (His plan all along anyway.) It might be large but filled with one giant and one still decently sized man it was a snug fit, their legs in an awkward tangle. Water splashed over the sides of the tub. The hot water was nothing but a blessing, he could feel hissore muscles immediately relaxing. He tipped his head back until his hair was wet.

 

 »You like my new look? Think I can pull it off?«, he teased as he resurfaced, hair slicked like a greasy dandy. All he got as an answer was a noncommittal grunt. Illya had his eyes closed, head resting on the arm that was braced on the rim of the bathtub. His hair was still in strands, sweaty and a mess.Napoleon’s eyes flicked over Illya’s tired face, the wild collection of marks Napoleon couldn’t even really remember scattering over his throat and chest and finally settled on the red bruises around his wrists. Everything could be easily covered up by one of his usual turtleneck and leather jacket combinations. No one would know. Except Napoleon. (And probably Gaby.) If he had an ounce of shame in his body he would be ashamed that he felt a deep possessive satisfaction rather than remorse. ( _I want it. I take it. It’s mine_.)

 

»C’mon, get that head under water.« Napoleon nudged Illya softly with his leg until he did what he said, still with his eyes closed and somehow seeming very far away. The moment he sat up again Napoleon pulled at his arm, the water making it easy to get Illya to his side. He wasn’t putting up any resistance. There was indeed enough soap in the water that when Napoleon started to slowly massage through the now wet hair it started to foam. Illya would probably deny it in the morning but right now he leant forward into Napoleon’s touch. But the peace didn’t last too long. Someone apparently remembered they were a big bad super secret agent. 

»I can take care of myself, Solo.«, Illya mumbled before he pulled away and dipped his head back to wash the foam out of his hair, before settling back into his old position at the small end of the tub. Napoleon sighed but with a smile. 

»Sure you can, big boy.«, he conceded appeasingly. Just as he wanted to settle at the opposite end of the tub, he was pulled in a different direction, suddenly finding himself leaning against Illya’s strong frame. His smile changed into a smirk. »What gives me the honor?« 

 

»You really like to hear yourself talk.« Napoleon could feel Illya’s lips moving against the back of his head, the heat radiating from his body. 

 

»Whatever gave you that impression?«, he asked, mock offended. This was actually…really nice to be honest. He was becoming drowsy. The soft shift of the water with every little movement, Illya’s warmth, his regular, calm heartbeat in the back. Deadly combination. He put his arms on top of the rim of the bathtub to get some leverage and not be in danger of unconsciously dropping lower and lower. Just like this he stayed for a while. Eyes closed, enjoying himself. He cracked one eye open es he felt Illya’s heavy arm settle on top of his, his hand on top of Napoleon’s hand. Ever so slightly Napoleon spread his fingers a little, just enough so Illya’s fingers crossed with them. 

 

Napoleon stared at the angry red bruise on Illya’s wrist. »Was it good?« Napoleon thought he needed to ask, he should ask. It was not quite the right question.

 

Illya staid quiet for such a long time that Napoleon already thought he had fallen asleep. »If you are waiting for me to stroke your ego or praise you for your _skills_ …«, he trailed off, probably not thinking the sentence was worth finishing.

 

Napoleon chuckled and leaned his head back. »I take that as a yes.« 

 

»It wasn’t one.«

 

»Still take it as one. No taking back.« He was getting really, really damn tired. It would be probably alright if he just closed his eyes for a few minutes. Distantly he took notice of the kiss that was pressed into the crook of his neck, tenderly, cautiously. 

 

Yeah… he’d take that.

 

[Eventually Gaby woke them up with a mock horrified face, hands clasped over her eyes with big gaps between her fingers, moaning about her innocence. When Illya didn’t even react in the slightesther expression quickly changed to wide eyed surprise. She gave Napoleon a thumbs up after making some kind of obscene gesture with her hand that probably translated better in German before she sauntered out of the bathroom.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so, so much for reading and the sweet comments! They are my life and the best inspiration. I don't feel quite done with The Man from U.N.C.L.E. just yet, so we'll see what comes next. If you want to chat or drop a prompt or a comment - you can also hit me up on tumblr - [GraveformyDarling](http://graveformydarling.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> First - THANKS FOR READING
> 
> Second - In the coming days you'll probably get a little cute something I would like to call "After Care Epilogue"! So look out for that!
> 
> Third - If you want to chat or have something to say you don't want to post in the comments - hit me up on tumblr! There I am graveformydarling!


End file.
